Cold Fire
by Becca Vexing
Summary: Sandor finds himself back in Winterfell. It's cold. He hates it. Set in the days after the season 7 finale (we are, however, going to ignore the final scene at Eastwatch for the time-being). Eventual SanSan.
1. Chapter 1

• **Chapter One** •

Gods, it was fucking cold. The furs of Sandor's cloak tickled his beard as he made his way through the snow-laden grounds of Winterfell. Myriad scents met his nostrils as he strode past the butcher, the miller, the blacksmith. Each worker cast a careful sideways glance at him, eyes customarily lingering on his scarred cheek. _All Northmen have the same dumb fucking face,_ Sandor thought to himself, scowling at the unwanted attention. It was bad enough he had to deal with the horrid Northern weather - having to deal with Northmen only added insult to injury. Sandor was accustomed to being treated with disdain everywhere he went, but the men of Winterfell had a unique and singular bluntness about them. Men here had no qualms about staring, laughing. Mocking his disfigurement in their stupid fucking Northern accents.

 _The sooner I leave this shithole, the better._

Sandor had been back in Winterfell nearly a week. He had returned with Jon Snow and his entourage after their ill-advised visit to King's Landing to display the Wight. He was not privy to the war meetings, but he knew that the King in the North was getting ready to mobilize his men, ready to face the threat beyond The Wall. The brief reprieve from the travel had been most welcome, though Sandor wished that it could have taken place somewhere warmer. _I suppose it's cold everywhere now,_ he realized, sighing.

His heavy boots crunched along the frozen ground as he made his way to The Great Hall, hungry after a long day of cutting down trees in the Godswood. He decided he had better make himself useful while he was here - helping add to the firewood stores in preparation for The Long Night seemed a respectable job. Besides, Sandor found that chopping wood was a good way to clear his mind. Certainly, it brought up unfortunate memories of the last time he took up that vocation; but it brought him a curious calm nonetheless. It kept his sword arm strong, and it kept him out of trouble. Spending his days alone in the woods meant he wasn't picking fights with idiotic Northmen.

Sandor raised a blistered, gloved hand to the old oak door of the The Great Hall and pushed it open with a loud creak. It was nearly suppertime, and a few lord-type cunts and their women were milling around the tables, mugs and goblets in hand. Supper was yet to be served, but there were two or three steel trays of bread and potatoes lying about that Sandor helped himself to. He didn't like dining with the rest of them at mealtimes – he hated small talk. Beric would try and talk some shite about the Lord of Light's divine plan for them all, Tormund would spend the entire evening making moon-eyes at a clearly uncomfortable Brienne of Tarth. To be honest, Sandor didn't know the rest of their fucking names. He didn't care to learn. Most nights, he ate before everyone else and retired early. He was never one for making friends, and he preferred it that way. Better to avoid fucking up his social airs and graces by steering clear of the highborn cunts altogether.

Stuffing his face with potato, he cast his good eye around the hall, making sure there was no one there with whom he would be forced to make conversation. Scanning the faces around him, lit by lamps and candlelight, he recognized no one. He settled back into his wooden chair, relieved. He upturned a flagon of ale into his mouth, wiping the dripping remnants from his beard. The Northern swill was not as good as what he'd grown used to in the Capital, but it did its job. He felt his head beginning to swim as he finished off his dinner. Pushing the tray to the centre of the table, he made to stand. As he got to his feet, Sandor heard something a little ways behind him. Across the hall. Laughter. A high-pitched, girlish laughter. Sandor froze, his back to the source of the sound. He felt his good ear turn strangely hot, his breath suddenly coming a little less evenly.

" _I knew there was no use in trying to talk sense into him" –_ a voice, smooth and sure, coloured with the last few gasps of riotous laughter. Though it had been years since he'd heard it, Sandor would have recognized it anywhere.

 _Little Bird._

Sandor's hands gripped the edge of the table, threatening to break the wood in two. His mind was infuriatingly blank. He shot a glance to the doors of the Hall, a good fifty feet away from him. If he made to leave, he might be noticed. He wasn't exactly a man of discreet stature.

 _Just go, you ruddy fool. She wouldn't give a pig's shit even if she knew it was you._

For reasons unbeknownst to him, Sandor's legs guided him involuntarily back down to the table. Cursing under his breath, he kept his head down, away from the sound of murmuring across the hall. From what he could tell, Sansa was sat at the Stark's table at the front of the hall, speaking with another young woman. A friend, he guessed, considering the laughter he had heard. They had since lowered their voices, he could no longer make out what they were saying. Sandor strained, trying to discern the matter of their conversation.

 _Look at you, eavesdropping like a lowly street whore._

Sandor scowled at himself, but did not move. Keeping his head down, he turned ever so slightly. His long, scraggly hair fell down over his face, concealing it. He peered through it, spying across the room the two women seated at the farthest, highest table.

He knew her immediately. Her back was turned three-quarters away from him, her long auburn hair reaching all the way down to the small of her back. It was longer than when he last saw her. The style was different, no longer tightly braided like the Southern highborn ladies. Like Cersei, when she still had hair. He smirked at that thought. His eyes roamed across Sansa's profile, noting how her face had matured in the years since they had last met - in her chambers during the Battle of the Blackwater. She was so young then, pink faced and terrified. She didn't look terrified now. She spoke confidently, smiling and laughing with her plain-looking friend. Even her posture was different. Sandor glanced down at her neck, her shoulders. He wanted nothing more than to get closer, to see her more clearly.

Sansa turned her body slightly, threatening to look in Sandor's direction. His breath catching in his chest, he tore his face away, forcing himself to look somewhere else. Anywhere else.

 _Walk away, dumb cunt._

It had been six days that Sandor had been in Winterfell. Six days that he had spent in the woods, trying to avoid this exact situation. It was only in this very moment - with his breathing erratic and the hairs at the nape of his neck on end - that he realized the true reason for his elective solitude.

He had refused to admit, even to himself, his trepidation at returning to the Stark's home. He had heard tell of Sansa's turn as Lady of Winterfell in Jon's absence. He imagined she must have changed considerably since they had last met. He cursed himself whenever he thought of that night. They had not left on good terms. Though he was drunk as a mule, head pounding and ears ringing from the sights and sounds of battle, he remembered his ugly treatment of her. Shaking her, demanding a song from her pretty lips. His faced turned hot thinking of it. He hated that he had frightened her. Of all the people in Westeros he revelled in frightening, she was not one. He had meant to offer her sanctuary. A means of escape.

But he had cocked it all up, made a mess of things like the dog he was. And he had left her there, in that hellish place. Sandor had committed many sins in his wretched lifetime – slaughtered countless men, women, children – but leaving Sansa Stark alone in King's Landing was his greatest regret.

He had attempted to atone for this sin by way of protecting her sister, Arya. But she had proved more trouble than any bag of silver was worth. He had seen the younger Stark girl during his stay in Winterfell, catching glimpses in the yard of her training with Brienne in the afternoons. He had laughed loudly to himself at the sight, but decided against approaching them. He had done enough to the poor girl. He would be of better use in the woods.

At the top end of the Great Hall, Sansa Stark had stood to leave. Sandor eyed her, his head still turned downward, making certain he stayed scarce. He watched as she left through the archway at the head of the room, his eyes raking down the back of her. She wore a long, simple black dress, far removed from the audacious pastel pinks and greens she wore in the Capital. It conformed to curves he had never noticed before, her hips full, her legs long and elegant.

 _Gods. She's a woman now._

His mind still churned lazily with alcohol, and Sandor found his imagination all too quickly ran away from him. He suddenly pictured his large, calloused hands running up and down the length of the girl's smooth form. He sucked in a sharp breath, willing the thoughts to dissipate. Rubbing his eyes firmly, he stood as soon as Sansa had disappeared out of the hall. _Enough of that,_ he thought. He turned on his heels and headed for the large doors behind him, his boots thudding heavily on the stone floor.

He pushed on the doors with more force than was strictly necessary. The creaking echoed in his ears as the frosty night air whipped at Sandor's cheeks. The doors pounded shut behind him. Sandor let out a lungful of air he didn't realize he had been holding – the steam of his hot breath creating a wispy haze in front of his face. Exhausted and ashamed, his mind still reeling, Sandor leant his weight against the oak doors and stared into the cold, dark night.

 _Fuck._

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	2. Chapter 2

• **Chapter Two •**

Sandor barely slept. He found his thoughts plagued by visions of flaming red hair and the sounds of peeling laughter. He had tossed and turned, fitful for hours. When the winter sun began to peek through the heavy drapery, Sandor finally sat upright, seething. He couldn't believe he had allowed himself to be so foolish. He should have stayed away from The Great Hall altogether. It was no place for someone like him. He remembered the way his ears turned hot at the sound of the girl's voice, the way his mouth felt dry even after three flagons of Northern piss ale. He detested feeling so fucking powerless.

He swung his long legs over the side of his bed, placing both feet on the floor. As was often the case in the mornings, Sandor's thigh twinged. It had pained him ever since his fall from the cliff, where the littlest Stark had left him to rot. He could stand the pain – it was the accompanying memories that gave him the most distress. Propped against that rock, bleeding and bruised, he had never felt more helpless, more vulnerable. He loathed to think of it.

Pulling his boots on, he realized these latest unfortunate feelings didn't seem so different. He stood and crossed the room to the window, pulling back the heavy drape. His guest chambers were high up in the eastern wing of The Great Keep – he could see the entire courtyard from the window. A light snow was cascading down onto the ground below, gently dusting everything it touched. Were he a man of a more poetic disposition, he might have called the view pretty.

He was going to train today. The firewood stores could do without him for a day. Sandor hadn't swung a sword in a week – he was getting antsy. Besides, hitting a straw dummy for a few hours might be the perfect cure for the irksome and intrusive thoughts that had kept him up all night. Reaching for his cloak, Sandor swung open his chamber door, determined to take his frustrations out on _something._

••••••••••

Little bits of straw floated down to the snowy ground as Sandor thwacked the ever-loving daylight out of the training dummy. It was only a blunt sword, but the effort made him feel marginally better. As was his custom, he pictured his brother's face over that of the dummy's. It always made him hit harder. He punctuated every blow with a curse under his breath.

 _"Stupid. Fucking. Cunt."_ He swung again, again, again. The dummy, now rapidly losing its padding, was beginning to look rather sad and deflated.

Sandor paused, lowering the sword. His breath came fast and heavy, beads of sweat falling off of him and melting into the snow at his feet. He'd been at it for hours now. The sleepless night and missed meals were starting to catch up with him. Now that most of his frustration had dissipated, he was starting to feel somewhat weak and dizzy. Wiping the damp hair from his eyes, Sandor dropped the sword and filled his lungs with air. He cast his eyes upward at the cloudy, darkening sky. The sun disappeared early these days. Not much daylight to make use of.

He wouldn't eat in the Great Hall tonight. He'd stop by the kitchens on his way back to his chambers. _Much safer that way._ He'd be damned before he'd make a fool of himself again, the way he did the evening previous. The Hound was a warrior feared across Westeros – he wasn't going to let a little girl humiliate him. Again.

Re-fastening his cloak around his shoulders, Sandor started up the wooden steps to the terrace that led back to The Great Keep. The chill of the air around him drew attention to the quickly cooling sweat on his face, making him feel even colder than he already was. Starved and tired, Sandor was barely looking where he was going. He hadn't noticed another person standing on the terrace, about twenty feet away from him. They were facing away, leaning on the balustrade. As if they had just been watching him train. The figure wore a hooded cloak, protecting their face against the cold breeze.

Sandor finally glanced up, slowing his pace as he noticed the unexpected presence. He came to an abrupt halt as the figure let down the hood of their cloak, turning to face him. A length of fiery hair tumbled out, framing a pale, youthful face.

 _Sansa._

She wore a simple grey gown and a heavy, navy blue cloak. Her hair was in a single plait that trailed over her left shoulder. Sandor chewed at the inside of his mouth. The North suited her.

They stared at one another across the length of the terrace. Sandor focused on keeping his breath even, conscious that she would be able to see it in the winter air between them. His face betrayed nothing - years of standing at the sides of cunt kings and queens had taught him to keep his features measured. He thanked them for it now. He tried to read her expression, remembering how easy it had once been to guess at her thoughts. No longer. Her porcelain face was as smooth and emotionless as the dolls she used to fuss over. Her eyes travelled from his face, down to his boots and back up again. He wondered what she was searching for.

 _Maybe she heard about my run in with Brienne and is wondering if I've still got all my limbs._

"Sandor."

Her voice, soft, pierced through his inner monologue. He blinked at her. She had used his name. He felt his face falter, a minute twitch of his mouth. He composed his features quickly, hoping she hadn't noticed. Her face had softened too - she was looking at him with... What was it? Certainly not the terror he had grown so accustomed to seeing from her. Not hatred. Not annoyance. Something else. He cleared his throat.

"Lady Stark."

He winced internally. _Too formal._ He felt like a fucking fool. In truth, he realized he had no idea how to speak to the girl. He'd not seen her in years, and the last time they spoke he had terrified her. He sniffed, uncomfortable. He'd never had trouble speaking his mind before, why did this girl give him so much pause?

Sansa took a step closer. Sandor raised his chin, straightening up to his full height. He looked down at her, wondering what in the Seven Hells she must be thinking. He could feel his fingers curling and uncurling at his sides.

 _Go. She doesn't want to see you. Just walk away._

Sandor bowed his head, making to turn and leave. Before he could, Sansa spoke.

"I heard you had come with my brother. I thought perhaps you had left again for the South… Then I saw you in the Hall. Last night."

 _She saw me?_ He felt his face grow uncomfortably warm. She must have noticed him at supper, cowering in the corner like a ruddy dormouse. For a brief second, Sandor felt like flinging himself off of the edge of the terrace into a snowdrift below.

He simply nodded once in response, curt. His tongue felt stiff and useless in his mouth. He hated feeling like this. He usually had a sharp word for every situation. Not now.

"Thought I'd keep useful, where I can. Your brother's a good man."

Sansa gave a small smile. Sandor stared at her mouth a little longer than he meant to.

"Not like you to say a nice thing like that." She was smiling wider now, eyeing him inquisitively.

Sandor bristled. Was she playing with him? He couldn't believe she'd feel enough at ease around him to make jokes. She had trembled at the sight of him, once. Where was that fear now?

"I imagine we've both changed, some." He replied gruffly.

Sandor peered out over the balustrade, strangely unwilling to make eye contact with the girl. He could feel her icy blue eyes staring at him. Sizing him up, somehow. He couldn't figure out what she wanted, and it infuriated him.

Suddenly stifling a yawn, Sandor realized just how exhausted he was. He wanted nothing more than to fall into his bed and think about something else. Something other than those blue eyes, her pink lips.

 _Or think very hard about them._

"You've had a tiring day, ser. I won't keep you any longer."

"I'm no ser."

At this, Sansa flashed an unexpected grin, baring her perfect teeth. Sandor momentarily forgot to breathe. He wasn't sure he'd ever seen her smile like that before.

"You're right. I should remember. You only told me a half-dozen times when we were in King's Landing."

Sandor attempted to return her smile, but could feel it disfiguring into a kind of strained-looking wince across his ruined face. His face slackened, defeated. A moment of silence passed. Sansa was still watching him. His legs were tensed, ready to turn tail and flee from this fucking ridiculous situation he had somehow found himself in. Letting another second pass, Sandor decided it was now within the guidelines of courtesy to leave. Turning on his heel, he began back the way he had come. Before he had gotten more than three steps, Sansa's voice interrupted him.

"If it's all the same to you, Sandor-"

She used his name again. It was just as surprising as the first time. There was a time when Sandor wasn't even sure if she knew his real name – now here she was, using it in casual speech as if they were old friends. He understood no part of it, least of all the way his name seemed to sound so agreeable coming from her lips.

Sandor realized that he had stopped dead in his tracks, his back still facing her. He whipped around, his face questioning. She was still probing him with her eyes, though she looked slightly flustered now. He raised his intact eyebrow, waiting for her next words.

"If it's all the same, I'd like to pay you a visit tomorrow. In the Godswood."

Sandor stared. _Why is she doing this?_

"Not much for you to see there." He replied. His voice came out more strained than he intended, betraying his utter confusion. Sansa's mouth turned down slightly at the corners. She pressed further.

"It's been years since we've seen one another. I hope you will humour me with a real conversation. I know you don't much like it."

Sandor continued to stare. He had no good reason to tell her no, save for the fact that he was terrified of making a fucking goat's arse out of himself. He couldn't tell her that, of course. He simply nodded – one quick, succinct ducking of his chin.

Deciding that that was about all he could bear of this excruciating interaction, Sandor turned once more. He strode along the wooden terrace faster than he needed to, letting his long legs carry him away from Sansa before she could say anything else.

He had made his way back to his guest chambers before he had even registered how much time had passed. His mind was swimming. Pushing the door open, the musty stench of the seldom-used room drifted across his face. He kicked off his boots with two loud thuds, collapsing onto the sheepskin atop his bed. Sandor ran a hand over his eyes, staring blankly at the stone ceiling. He blinked slowly, the events of the last few minutes cycling relentlessly through his mind. His stomach grumbled loudly and he cursed.

 _What the fuck was that about?_

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	3. Chapter 3

• **Chapter Three** •

 _The bear's jaw snapped open and closed, pieces of rotting flesh sent flying. It lunged at Sandor; he could smell its foul, dead breath. He turned to run, but his legs wouldn't move. Suddenly, the great beast's body went up in flames. Sandor recoiled from the heat, unable to get away. The bear's fiery mouth enveloped him._

 _Darkness._

•••••••••••••

 _If I never see another fucking log again, it'll be too soon._

Sandor was in a dreadful mood. He chopped at the fallen tree in front of him with overwhelming force – causing it to splinter and crack into tiny pieces. Not even the woods could soothe him today. After his run in with _her_ yesterday, Sandor was on edge. Every slight noise caused him to jump; he would whip around and search the trees for any sign of another person's presence, waiting to catch a glimpse of fiery hair. He had no clue what she had planned, no idea why she would request a meeting. Out here. With no one else around.

 _A precarious position for a little bird to place herself in._

Sandor had managed a better night's sleep, though he was plagued by bad dreams. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a dream that didn't involve either dead men or rotted, flaming bears. It was all he could think about these days. Well, almost. Sandor supposed a perplexing girl with mysterious motives was an easier crisis to deal with than the quickly-approaching end of the world.

He didn't have to like it, though.

Arranging his newly cut logs in a pile at his feet, Sandor considered all the things he might say to Sansa, if she ever decided to make an appearance.

 _Let me tell you about the time your little sister left me to die at the bottom of a cliff._

 _I heard of your marriage to the Imp. Is it true what they say about dwarf cocks?_

 _No, I'm afraid the years haven't made me any less ugly. They've been kind to you, though._

Sandor cursed and threw a log down, causing the whole pile to topple over. Was that the best he could do? Petty whinging and lecherous remarks? Surely he had something of substance to say. The Lady of Winterfell would demand substance.

 _The dead men are coming. Have you made peace with your Gods, Little Bird?_

Just then, Sandor heard the sound of twigs snapping underfoot. He froze, holding his breath. Much like his dream the night before, he felt completely unable to move. He heard the rustling grow closer until he could hear it mere feet away. Sandor's mind was blank. He couldn't will a single thought into his head – he could only listen to the sounds behind him. It was only her voice that jolted him back into the realm of the living.

"I wasn't sure which part of the Godswood I'd find you in."

Sandor resumed breathing. He prayed to Gods he didn't quite believe in that his voice would not betray his nerves.

"You found me all the same."

Finally, he turned around to meet her. She was sitting, perched on one of the fallen trees he had yet to start hacking at. She wore another grey dress, with the same cloak as yesterday. _Seems she favours dark colours now,_ Sandor noted. She looked up at him with a composed expression, saying nothing. Was she goading him? He stared back at her. Moments passed. _Fine,_ he thought. _One of us has to say something._

"I'm surprised the King in the North would allow his pretty sister to wander the Godswood alone. Especially knowing who she'd find in it." He watched her face for a reaction, half-expecting she'd finally realize the situation she'd put herself in. Alone in the woods with a monster.

Her face didn't falter.

"You were a great asset to Jon on his expedition. I am sure he trusts you as much as any of his men."

He raised his eyebrow at her. "No place for me in the war meetings, though."

"It's a cramped room," she replied, smirking. "Besides, you've shown no interest. You spend all your time out here".

 _Trying to get away from you._

Sandor resumed stacking his log pile, attempting to look busy. He hoped perhaps she'd take the hint and leave. Of course, he had never been so lucky.

"I want to know what's happened to you, Sandor." She gazed at him more intently. "Since we last met."

He peered up from his logs. She was watching on contentedly, awaiting his answer. Sandor rose to his full height and stared down at her. He must have looked imposing, but she did not flinch.

"It's not a happy story."

"None of us have happy stories." Sansa rose to her feet, matching him. She was taller than he remembered, though he still surpassed her by more than a foot. _Suppose she looks taller when she's not cowering._

They held each other's gaze for a moment. Sandor searched the girl's face, trying once again to find that old fear he had known so well back in King's Landing. He found nothing. In front of him now was a woman who was unafraid. This made Sandor quietly uneasy.

 _What has she seen, if I no longer frighten her_?

Sandor stepped past her to sit where she had been on the fallen tree. He gestured to the opposite end of the log, an invitation. She paused, before gathering her cloak and sitting down next to him. Sandor stared forward, considering.

"I suppose your sister will have told you all about our little tour of the countryside." He began.

"I want to hear your telling of it. I know Arya has a tendency to... Exaggerate."

Sandor laughed, a short and sharp sound. He picked up a nearby stick and began drawing aimlessly in the snow.

"Whatever she or the big bitch-" he stopped himself - " _Brienne_ have to say about it, I was only trying to protect her. I can see how it looked. 'Course I can. But I was all she had out there. She would have gotten herself killed. How could I know the Tarth bitch meant what she said about some fucking oath she swore to a dead woman? I didn't know her. Couldn't trust her."

Sansa stared forward, mimicking his position. "I hear she left you half-dead."

Sandor winced. "Don't much like thinking about that part."

"I'd like to know."

He sighed. "Aye. Bleeding to death under a cliff. Wasn't pretty. I asked your sister to end it, but she stole my silver and fucked off. Can't say I blame her."

"That sounds like Arya."

They sat for a moment. Sansa rolled the material of her cloak between her long fingers. Sandor watched from the corner of his eye. She had pretty hands.

"And?" She prompted. "What then?"

"And then I was rescued by a priest-type and his followers. They were good people."

Sandor's hand paused, still holding the stick. He gazed down at it.

"But they died. Like everyone else."

"I'm sorry."

"You didn't do it."

Sandor turned his body to face her, dropping the stick at his side.

"Then the fucking Brotherhood Without Banners found me, and you know the rest of the story. Now I'm here."

"Now you're here."

Sandor took a deep breath, preparing for the question he had been waiting to ask.

"Does my being in Winterfell bother you?" He stared forward again, afraid of what her face might tell him.

She remained silent beside him for what felt like an age. Sandor almost told her to forget he ever asked, before she finally spoke.

"I'm happy you're here."

Sandor tensed. Had he heard that right? He stood, suddenly uncomfortable at how close he was to her. He walked several paces before turning and looking at her. He felt strangely angry.

"That night, during the Battle of the Blackwater. You remember?" He stared her down. He wanted to make her see.

Her brow furrowed slightly. _There it is,_ he thought. _Remember what I am._

"You were drunk. You wanted me to sing for you." She spoke quietly now.

Sandor felt a lump form in his throat. He knew he had to talk sense into her, whether he enjoyed it or not.

"That wasn't the only thing I wanted from you." He made sure to keep his voice even. Menacing.

 _Run away from me, girl. Save yourself the trouble._

He expected her to balk at his comment, to blush or run away or scold him for being crude. She did none of this. She merely peered up at him from under her cloak, her face blank.

"No." She said. "You wanted to take me. To fuck me bloody."

Sandor stiffened, taken aback. He'd never imagined he'd hear anything like that from her mouth. He swallowed as he realized why the words sounded familiar. _Gods. I said that._

"At least, that's what you told Arya."

Sansa stood once more, advancing on him. Sandor felt very small all of a sudden. He hadn't truly meant what he said, barely conscious at the foot of that cliff. He only meant to give the little Stark a reason to shove that needle-blade through his heart. How could he convince Sansa of that? Perhaps he ought not try.

 _Better she be disgusted by me. Safer._

He stayed silent, his eyes trained on his boots.

"Sandor. Look at me." She was much closer than he anticipated. He glanced up. She was staring intently at him, her eyes piercing his. She wasn't afraid. Suddenly, her expression softened.

"You won't hurt me."

Sandor shut his eyes, unable to hold her gaze any longer. He couldn't understand why she was still showing him kindness. She should have turned and walked away from him long before now. And yet, here she was, looking at him with… _Warmth?_ Treating him like something other than a vicious dog. She had used the same words as the night they last saw one another. She wanted him to know that she remembered. His breathing was ragged, composure impossibly far from his grasp.

After some time, he opened his eyes.

"No Little Bird, I won't hurt you."

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	4. Chapter 4

• **Chapter Four •**

"Tomorrow morning we march on the Wall. The dead are getting closer. There's no more time to sit around and discuss it."

Jon Snow stood at the front of the stone hall, clad in black leather and furs. His brothers and sisters sat either side, as well as the blonde-haired dragon queen. They all wore the same stern expression - an unspoken challenge to the dozens of huddled Northmen in their company. None dared meet it.

Sandor stood at the back of the hall, shoulder to shoulder with some grizzly, smelly fuckers he'd never seen before in his life. Jon Snow had summoned all Lords and commanders to meet and discuss the mobilization of armies north. Sandor would have rather preferred to be elsewhere, but it seemed this meeting was not optional. Sandor suppressed a chill, quickly realizing he'd have to face those rotting cunts again in the very near future.

The hall was cold and cramped, there were far more men than the stone walls could comfortably house. Sandor was growing irritated, resenting his inability to move his arms and legs without knocking against someone. Ahead of him, Northmen and wildlings alike were debating some issue or another, their voices loud and heated. Sandor hadn't really cared to listen. Strategy had never particularly interested him – he'd killed hundreds of men just fine without it.

He let his gaze drift around the room at the collection of lords and soldiers; all of them shared the same uncertain and fearful look in their eyes. Sandor wondered if his own face betrayed similar sentiments.

 _Dumb fuckers, the lot of us. Standing here agreeing to march to our deaths._

He was ready. Of course he was. Sandor had been prepared for death his entire life. He had never quite pictured it being at the hands of some decaying, dead shit - but he supposed it was as good a way to die as any. _Shame I couldn't get to my cunt brother first,_ he thought, rueful.

Sandor cast his eyes forward to the row of Starks, to Jon Snow and the recent addition of the blonde Targaryen. Her presence in Winterfell had caused much antagonism, as expected. Sandor had overheard angry mutterings in the courtyard – one evening was even accosted by a burly, drunken guardsman, being spurred on by his equally inebriated friends:

 _"Oi, dog! I heard you was with the King in the North and the dragon bitch up north. Does her cunt have scales too?"_

Sandor watched the white-haired beauty next to Jon – she was speaking, but he could not hear her from the back of the hall. The room had turned silent in response. Sandor guessed that she had reminded them all of the terrifying existence of her two beloved dragons. _No arguing with that_.

His eyes flitted across to the left, settling on the mass of flaming hair that so strikingly contrasted with the Targaryen's blonde locks. Sansa Stark gazed forward, her eyes blank. She seemed to be elsewhere. Sandor found himself staring, wondering – not for the first time - what the girl could be thinking of.

Muttering erupted from around Sandor, jolting him out of his thoughts. It seemed the meeting had been dismissed, judging from the unceremonious pushing and shoving that had just commenced around him. Groaning as misplaced elbows and shoulders landed against his chest and stomach, Sandor turned and began pushing his way out. Luckily, standing at the back of the hall meant he was close to the archway. His size and strength also meant that fighting through a crowd was easy. If someone took issue with his shoving, they need only take one look at Sandor to realize it was not a fight worth picking.

He had just about made it to the door when he felt a hand on his arm. He would have shrugged it off as just another pushy Lord and ignored it – but it was followed by the sound of his name.

"Clegane."

Sandor turned, as much as the crowd would allow. Jon Snow was standing before him, staring intently. The throng began diverting around the two of them, no soldier wanting to give their Lord Commander a reason to remember their face. Sandor frowned at the little man, standing a good two heads below him. His stature aside, Jon had an imposing presence.

 _What the fuck does he want with me?_

The men dispersed quickly – leaving the two of them alone in the hall. Sandor felt uneasy. His mind raced, trying to come up with the reason he was about to be reprimanded. He _had_ taken a day off of chopping wood… But surely the King in the North had bigger worries than that. Was it the near-brawl he had with some stupid drunk Northman last night? That also seemed too trivial. He'd kept his head low since he'd been in Winterfell, except…

 _Oh, fuck._

"I wanted to talk to you about my sister."

Sandor made sure to keep his face blank, though he could feel his pulse skip. He should have been smarter. Of course it was foolish to speak to a Lady alone in a fucking forest. _Especially when her brother can cut my fucking head off._

"I didn't mean to bother the Little Bird." Gods, he sounded like a kicked dog. What was it about the girl that made him so feeble?

Jon's stare didn't falter, though it seemed to soften slightly.

"I've heard quite the opposite. She speaks very highly of you."

Sandor's brow furrowed in response. He cast his gaze towards one of the stone pillars, suddenly strangely embarrassed.

"I know you were kind to her when she was in King's Landing," he continued. "She seems to trust you."

Sandor's face felt uncomfortably hot. He wondered if he could find an excuse to leave this conversation before anything else was said. He opened his mouth to speak, but Jon persisted.

"You won't be marching with us tomorrow."

Sandor's eyes snapped back to meet Jon's. So he _was_ being punished.

"You need me. I've seen them. I'm much better use to you out there."

The corner of Jon's mouth twitched. Sandor figured that was as close to a smile as the King in the North got. It made him very uneasy.

"You'll be of better use to me here, in Winterfell. If the dead breach our lines, we need good men here to secure our battlements."

"If the dead breach your lines, the rest of us are fucked."

Jon's smile widened.

"It's not my only use for you here. Our wood stores are plenty thanks to you, and for that I am grateful. But Sansa needs protection while I'm gone. She has Brienne, but I'd feel better knowing you were here too."

Sandor blinked. He wasn't sure he was hearing correctly. The idea of being so close to the Stark girl was simultaneously terrifying and… Something else. His skin prickled at the thought.

"Brienne is a good fighter. She doesn't need me."

The two men stared at one another. Jon looked as though he was fighting some kind of internal conflict. _Though_ , Sandor supposed, _he looked like that most of the time_.

"She asked me not to say," Jon sighed. "But Sansa requested your services herself."

Sansa? Requested? Sandor didn't understand a fucking thing. _Why would she ask for me?_ His head felt like it was about to start spinning.

"Within Winterfell's walls, Brienne can accompany her. But you will go with her any time she visits the Godswood. And, from now on, you are to station yourself outside Sansa's chambers come nightfall. She…" Jon paused, frowning, as if trying to find the right words. "She has nightmares. It helps her to know she's guarded."

Sandor found it very hard to believe that the strong-headed Little Bird he had witnessed in the past few days could possibly frighten so easily. Regardless, he nodded, accepting his charge. It didn't seem clever to argue. Jon nodded once in response.

"Thank you, Clegane. My sister trusts you, so I trust you." Jon's dark eyes pierced Sandor's, searching.

"I'll keep her safe."

 _As safe as I can with an army of dead men knocking at her door._

Jon nodded, satisfied. He turned to leave, before stopping himself. He cast one last glance back at Sandor.

"If we come back from this…" His voice was lower now.

"I find out you've hurt my sister, I take your head."

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••


	5. Chapter 5

• **Chapter Five •**

 _Sandor's boots thudded against the flat ice as he ran, his heart pumping. He could hear the snarls and cries of the dead behind him. His breath came quickly, visible in front of him. He dared not turn around. Dared not slow down. He'd be dead if he did. Suddenly, the ice beneath him began to crack. The sound of it echoed across the frozen valley. Before Sandor realized what was happening, the ground beneath him gave out and he tumbled down, down, down._

 _Darkness._

 _•••••••••••••••_

Sandor awoke with a start. He should be used to the nightmares by now, but they always had him waking sodden with sweat. He reached up and wiped the moisture from his face, groaning.

 _What I'd give for one dreamless night._

He glanced up at the ceiling, eyes bleary. His mind had not yet caught up with the rest of him. In an attempt to calm himself, Sandor focused on the feeling of the warm furs around him, the heat from Winterfell's springs keeping his chambers comfortable. He forced his breath to slow and deepen.

As his senses began to return, he realized he could feel his manhood pressing against the bedding. He sighed. Most mornings, Sandor would ignore the sensation. It was a part of him he tried not to think about, when he could. In King's Landing he could take a whore whenever he liked, but times were different now. _Hard to get off with dead fuckers breathing down your neck._

It was a bizarre and inexplicable change he had observed in himself. The hunger was still there - dull in his belly - but he could never quite bring himself to act upon it. It felt as though something inside of him had been blunted. He would leer at the barmaids of Winterfell, staring down the front of their corsets when they'd bend over, but it was never as it once was. With one exception.

Sandor passed a lazy hand over the bedclothes, down his front. He shut his eyes, conjuring an image of fiery red hair. A thin, tall frame, leaning over a balustrade. Her hair tumbled over her shoulder, framing a perfect face.

It was only thoughts of Sansa Stark that seemed to be able to rekindle that old fire within him. Others would no longer do. It was a curious thing, and it puzzled Sandor to think too long on it. As a result, he rarely touched himself. It felt wrong, somehow. Like he'd be tarnishing something shining and pure if he were to sully it with his lustful thoughts. He had never been prudish – Sandor would make himself cum over thoughts of any woman he felt like, once. This change brought him no small amount of disquiet.

He slowed his hand, reluctant to excite himself any further. Frustrated, he sat up.

All at once, Sandor's conversation with Jon Snow the evening previous came flooding back to him. He sucked in a sharp breath, remembering that today was the day the Northern armies began their march to meet the dead. It was also the first day of his new duty – to guard Sansa Stark.

Sandor didn't know which was more terrifying.

 _•••••••••••••••_

"She doesn't need you today."

Sandor glanced up from his bowl of stew. Towering above him was a mess of blonde hair and a stern, angular face. He grunted in response.

"She tell you that herself?"

Brienne smirked. Or perhaps it was a sneer. Sandor could never quite work out which.

"Lady Stark will not be leaving the grounds of Winterfell today. She will be meeting with the ladies of the court this morning, followed by several hours of record keeping and letter writing."

"Sounds fucking fascinating." Sandor took another sip of his stew.

Brienne was definitely sneering now.

"The Lady of Winterfell has many duties. Not all of them are glamorous. I hope you won't be too disappointed, _ser."_ The tall woman's lip curled on the final word.

Sandor glanced back up. Her ire took him by surprise. He had assumed they were on good terms since their conversation in King's Landing. He stood, rising to meet her gaze. It was always a little strange having someone match his height. The fact that it was a woman was even stranger. Sandor never quite knew what to make of Brienne of Tarth.

"And here I thought you were starting to like me. Don't look too pleased to see me now." He stared into her icy blue eyes, a challenge. She didn't blink.

"And I thought you wanted to look out for Sansa's best interests."

"Aye."

"So why did you request a duty that requires you to follow the poor girl around like a lost dog? She has been more than satisfied with me as her guard. She doesn't need you."

Sandor's jaw tightened. He felt his face turn hot. He wasn't sure how to respond – Hells, he didn't even fully understand the situation himself.

"Didn't request it. Was given to me."

Brienne's eyes narrowed.

"I can't think of a single reason Jon Snow would entrust his sister's safety with a lecherous brute. Least of all why he would let you stand guard outside her chambers. It makes me sick to think of it."

Sandor shut his eyes, attempting to quell the rage building inside him. It would not do to punch a woman in the middle of the Great Hall. Even if that woman was Brienne of Fucking Tarth.

"I can think of one. The Lady asked for me herself."

Brienne stared. She was silent for several moments.

"I don't believe you."

"Ask her yourself."

"Perhaps I will."

"Alright then."

Sandor sat back down with a loud thump, pointedly picking up his bowl and slurping from it. He could feel Brienne's eyes boring into the back of his head. He didn't care. After some time, he heard her turn and leave. He let out a long breath, sinking into his seat.

He was relieved. Sandor had been feeling no small amount of trepidation at the prospect of having to shadow Sansa all day, especially given the amorous thoughts he awoke to. That trepidation doubled when he remembered that he was still expected at her chamber door come nightfall.

 _The big bitch was right. No place for me, lurking outside a Lady's chambers_.

In another life, that idea would have excited him. Not now. He had no desire to make the Little Bird uneasy. She had asked for him for a reason, he didn't want to squander whatever trust she had decided to place in him - even if that trust mystified him.

Sandor glanced out the hall's large window; it was still early in the day. Plenty of time before he had to face her. He thought he might go wander the woods and clear his head.

One way or another, Sandor needed answers.

 _•••••••••••••••_

The cobblestone wall was hard at Sandor's back as he leant against it, one leg crossed over the other. He had reported dutifully to Lady Stark's chambers as soon as the sun had gone down, though he had no idea what time she typically retired. He had been standing there for almost an hour, flinching at every set of footsteps he heard. He was waiting for someone to question him – ask what in Seven Hells a man like him was doing in this part of the Keep. He wasn't sure he had an answer.

No one bothered him. He yawned, absentmindedly rolling the hilt of his sword between his fingers. He was perfectly used to guard duty – he did it nearly every night in King's Landing. But it was usually with another guard, and they would at least be able to make conversation if the night was a particularly long one. Sandor fucking hated small talk, but it passed the time quicker. Here, he had nothing but his own thoughts to keep him company.

He only wished he had better things to think about.

Suddenly, footsteps sounded from Sandor's left. He gazed down the dark passageway, squinting to make out the shape of their owner. Before they had come close enough to be lit by the lantern at Sandor's feet, they stopped still. Sandor stared, his eyes straining.

"Good evening, Sandor."

If there hadn't been a wall behind him, Sandor might have stumbled. He hadn't expected her so early. He rushed to compose his features, grateful that the lantern provided only rudimentary light in the dim corridor. He straightened up to his full height.

"A Lady has no place in the shadows."

Slowly, Sansa stepped forward. Her face was bathed in the yellow glow of the weak flame. Sandor studied her. She looked tired.

"I apologize. It's good of you to be here so early." Her voice came out low, quiet. It gave Sandor pause.

"Just doing what I'm told."

Sansa nodded. They stood in silence for a while. After a time, she spoke again.

"It's hard to focus on keeping court while Jon's away. Fighting an enemy I can scarcely even conceive of. All my duties seemed so trivial today."

Sandor blinked, taken aback at her sudden desire to share her concerns. He felt out of his depth.

"If your brother comes back, there ought to be a Winterfell for him to come back to."

Sansa looked up at him; her eyes were near bloodshot. He wasn't sure she had been listening. He watched her lips tighten into a thin line.

"Goodnight, Sandor. Thank you for your service."

She moved to pass him, but Sandor stayed put – blocking her from entering her chamber. The girl barely reacted. She stared forward, eyes at the height of his chest. _Why isn't she fighting me?_

Sandor swallowed. He needed an answer from her. Tonight. He wouldn't allow it to keep eating away at him. He looked down at the girl, almost swaying on her feet.

"Why'd you ask for me?"

Sansa froze, her eyes regaining focus. She cast a glance up at him, before quickly looking away.

"I don't know what you mean." She was mumbling. _Was she embarrassed?_

"Your brother told me. You asked for me especially."

The Little Bird didn't move. Her eyes were cast down at the stone floor, studying it. She seemed to be trying very hard not to betray her true thoughts. _She's gotten better at lying,_ Sandor realized, frustrated. He wasn't sure why she was suddenly so timid - he thought he'd seen the last of that in King's Landing. The Sansa Stark he'd witnessed in the last week was headstrong and confident, unafraid to speak her mind.

 _Not now… Why?_

"If it's all the same, I've had a tiring day. I bid you a good night." Before Sandor had a chance to respond, Sansa pushed past him, gathered her frock and disappeared into her chambers. The door shut with a thud; the sound echoing in Sandor's ears.

 _•••••••••••••••_

It was well into the night. Sandor was sitting on a low stone column opposite Sansa's chamber door, his head hanging between his knees. His eyes were heavy, though he knew it would not do to fall asleep. He had been replaying the conversation of several hours ago over and over in his mind. Sansa had looked exhausted. She was clearly worried about her brother, but was that all? Sandor had never been very good at guessing the thoughts of others. He had never cared to, until now. He almost didn't mind that she hadn't give him an answer to his question. His concern was stronger than his curiosity.

Sandor ran his hands over his face, attempting to wake himself up. He knew he'd have to start sleeping through the day if he was going to keep this up. Sandor was just about to start reciting the words of some prayer or another that he had learnt from The Brotherhood to keep himself awake – when he heard it.

Screaming. From behind the wooden door in front of him. Before he knew what was happening, Sandor leapt to his feet.

 _Sansa._


	6. Chapter 6

**•** **Chapter Six •**

 _Ramsay Bolton sneered, his eyes cast downwards at the girl. Sansa's knees ached – she had been kneeling on them for what felt like hours. She was not allowed to stand up. He'd hit her if she did. The cobblestones of her Lord husband's chamber floor were cold and hard. She knew, because he often made her sleep on them. She peered up at him, her eyes blank. He met her gaze with a twisted grin._

 _"There's a good girl. Remember your place."_

 _He struck her once across the face. She flinched, though the force of it was not overwhelming. He was only toying with her tonight. Sansa prayed that Ramsay remained in good humour; else she receive a more severe beating._

 _He ran a finger across her bottom lip, caressing it. Sansa was more disturbed by this than the blow. She understood his meaning. Ramsay's hands moved to his belt, slowly unfastening it. Sansa felt tears well as she listened to him chuckle._

 _"My pretty wife. I'm going to make you choke on it."_

Sansa sat bolt upright, her head spinning. She screamed.

 _•••••••••••••••_

Sandor pushed at the door with enough force to all but clear it off its hinges. The girl's chambers were dark. He squinted as his eyes adjusted. He could make out a faint silhouette in the far corner of the room, behind a translucent bed canopy. He made his way toward it, his pace slowing. He didn't want to frighten her any further.

"Little Bird." He whispered.

Sansa turned towards him. Sandor's eyes had finally adjusted; he could make out her features in the dim light. Her cheeks were stained with tears. As Sandor crept closer, he realized she was trembling. She stared blankly, her eyes wet and heavy. With one hand, he gently pulled the bed curtain aside. He could hear her ragged breathing.

"You cried out."

Sansa's eyes regained focus as they fixed themselves on the man before her. She swallowed hard.

"I apologize for the disturbance." Her voice was barely whisper.

"Fuck niceties," Sandor growled. "What's got you so terrified?"

He instantly regretted his tone. The last thing the poor girl needed was a hostile visitor in her chambers. Sansa stared at her hands, fidgeting in her lap. Sandor let his eyes sweep over her – she was wearing a silken white slip, with a rather plunging neckline. He cursed himself for letting his eyes wander.

 _Now is not the time._

Sansa sighed, a long and weighty breath.

"Will you sit, Sandor?" She gestured to the edge of the bed.

Sandor bristled. Sitting on a lady's bed seemed like a particularly improper thing to do. If someone else had been roused by the girl's scream and entered to find him here... He could only guess as to what it might look like. Brienne of Tarth did not need any more fuel for her hateful fire.

He opened his mouth to refuse, but Sansa frowned. She looked so miserable. Sandor could not bring himself to tell her no. Instead, he lowered himself onto the edge of the bed - it dipped considerably under his weight. He was so close to her now. It was an uncomfortably intimate setting. Sandor did his best to focus on the girl's obvious distress, rather than her sleepwear.

"I had a bad dream." She began, her voice a little louder now.

"Have one of those every night. Fucking undead polar bears."

He had hoped to lighten the mood, but Sansa's face remained grim. He exhaled, resigning himself to simply listen.

"Tell me."

Sansa winced. It was a long time before she spoke again.

"You must have heard of my marriage to Ramsay Bolton." She gazed at him questioningly. Sandor shook his head.

"Didn't hear too much gossip where I ended up. Last I knew you'd been married off to the Imp." Sandor didn't like to imagine that wedding night. He rarely admitted it to himself, but he was painfully jealous of Tyrion. It wasn't a line of thinking he allowed himself to indulge very often. Now, to hear of a second wedding?

 _Seems like there's a whole list of fuckers I'd rather not think about._

"I was in Littlefinger's care for some time – he arranged the wedding. He thought it would better our chances of getting Winterfell back. What he didn't realize..." She paused, trying to find the words. She looked even paler than usual.

Sandor's brow furrowed. He didn't enjoy seeing her in so much misery, though he was uncertain as to its source.

"Ramsay was not well known. The Bolton house is famous for its cruelty, but he..." She swallowed again. "He was so much worse."

Sansa's hands gripped at her bed sheet. Sandor thought he could see the tears returning in her eyes. His own hands twitched, longing to reach out to her. Knowing she would not welcome his touch, he kept them at his sides.

"Think of all the terrible things you've ever heard of being done to young maidens." Her voice was uneven again. "All the things your Kingsguard friends must talk about in the tavern late into the night. The things you do to whores."

Sandor stiffened. He did not like where this was going. Sansa pulled the bed sheet up to dab at her wet eyes, before continuing.

"Ramsay did it all to me." She sniffed. "That and more. I don't even think you could imagine."

"I've got a good imagination." Sandor's voice was low. His mind was strangely, utterly silent.

Sansa looked up, meeting his gaze for the first time in some minutes. Sandor stared back, unafraid. They sat like that for a moment, unmoving.

 _You can tell me your twisted secrets, Little Bird. They're safe with me._

Slowly, Sansa nodded.

"He would play games with me. He'd tell me a riddle, and if I got it wrong... He'd cut me. See?"

Sansa extended her bare arm towards Sandor. He hadn't noticed before – but as the moonlight from the window poured onto her white skin, he could make out scars. Dozens of them, all over her arm. Sandor inhaled sharply, rising to his feet.

"Where do I find him?" He said, a little too loudly for the time of night. Sansa gave a minute smile.

"Never mind that. Please." She ran her hand over the edge of the bed where Sandor had been sitting.

He continued to stand, clenching his hands into fists. He couldn't stop himself from staring at her scarred body. Sandor realized now that they didn't stop at her arms. She had a long, thick marking that started at her collarbone and disappeared under the pale silk of her slip towards her ribs. Through gritted teeth, he wondered how far down it went.

Sansa's voiced interrupted his thoughts.

"Sandor. Will you sit?"

Sitting was the last thing Sandor wanted to do. He wanted to find the man who had done this to Sansa Stark. He shifted his weight between his feet, restless and agitated.

 _Order me to split his skull open for you. Please._

Sansa continued to peer up at him. Her eyes glistened with tears and moonlight. Sandor stared into them. He felt his anger begin to dissipate - a sudden, deep remorse taking its place.

"I'm sorry I wasn't here to protect you."

"Sit."

Sandor did as he was bid. Sansa took a deep breath, preparing to continue.

"He would go out hunting for days at a time. Those were my happiest nights, without him. But he always came back, with some new game for me. Once..." Sansa exhaled, her breath catching momentarily.

"I missed my moonblood twice in a row. When Ramsay found out, he pushed me to the ground and drove his boot into my stomach half a dozen times. I bled for days afterwards."

Sandor blinked. "The fucker didn't want an heir?"

"I'm sure he intended to have one eventually. He just wanted to see what would happen. That was Ramsay."

"Was?" _Don't tell me Jon got to him before I could._

Sansa fell silent. She pressed her lips into a thin, taut line. She cast her eyes across the room, staring absently at the wall.

"He's dead."

"I'm glad for it."

Silence. She stared. Sandor frowned, confused.

 _Why should she be unhappy about that?_

"I killed him."

Sandor straightened. He wasn't sure if he'd heard right.

"You?"

"He had these hounds. Vile things. I starved them and set them on him. I watched as they tore him apart."

Sandor watched her face. She betrayed nothing. They sat in the heavy quiet for several moments. Sandor's head was spinning. He had no idea what to make of what she was telling him. He folded his hands in his lap, looking down at his fingers.

"So. You're a killer now, too. Just like me."

He regretted the words as soon as they had left his mouth.

 _Stupid._

To his surprise, she smiled again.

"Just like you."

It was her turn to watch him. Her face was much more serene - she seemed to have calmed considerably. She spoke again after a moment.

"Thank you for listening, Sandor. I think I can fall asleep."

Sandor stood, smoothing out the front of his tunic. He felt slightly dazed after so many ugly stories. He had a lot to think about. He reached for the canopy curtain and put it back in its place.

"Goodnight, Sansa. If you need anything else, I'm outside."

He started for the door, before she stopped him.

"Sandor?" Her voice was quiet again.

He turned. He could see only her silhouetted shadow against the moonlit walls.

"We've both got scars now."

 _••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••_


	7. Chapter 7

**•** **Chapter Seven •**

Sandor did not sleep. He wasn't sure he would ever sleep again. His mind felt as if it were on fire. Thoughts raced faster than he could follow, all involving the violent ways in which Sandor longed to have brought about Ramsay Bolton's end.

 _Squish the little cunt's skull under my boot. Listen to the sound of his brains leaking out his ears._

It had been some time since Sandor had had reason to engage in any real brutality. These days he killed only out of necessity. Regardless, part of him sorely wished that this Ramsay was still alive.

 _Let me show you how it feels to be mutilated._

Sandor sat on the floor, his back against the wooden door of his chambers. He had collapsed there this morning after his shift was over. He was surprised he'd even been able to find the guest wing – his vision had been so blurred by rage. The moment he'd entered his chambers his knees gave way. He sunk to the floor, falling into a kind of faraway stupor.

After some time, sunlight began to stream through the window. It was the wrong time of the day to be feeling so worn. Sandor blinked hard, cursing the bright and offensive interruption.

Sandor's life was now to be lived in reverse, he realized. His fitful, nightmare-riddled sleep would accompany the daylight, a bright and bustling Winterfell beneath his window. At nightfall, he would report to his equally frightening occupation; the rest of the world oblivious to the screams and cries of his charge. Sandor winced as he recalled the evening previous, pressing his fists against his eyelids.

 _I'd kill him a thousand times over for you._

Peppered amongst his feelings of intense rage, there was confusion too. Sandor still could not understand why the Little Bird chose to confide in him, chose to have _him_ stand guard outside her chambers. They had never before had that kind of familiarity, as much as Sandor might have wished otherwise. She had plenty of ladies of the court to seek counsel with. Hells, even Brienne seemed like a more sensible option. So why him?

His memory flashed back to King's Landing – of a younger, more innocent face. Her mouth bleeding after yet another strike from her betrothed. Sandor had reached for her that day. Wiped the blood from her lip and spoke counsel to the lost bird. He remembered being surprised at himself – The Hound was not a man known for his acts of kindness.

 _She found something in me, even then._

Sandor had always taken an interest in the girl. If anyone were to ask, he'd say it was merely the face of a pretty highborn that stirred his favour. Perhaps this was true, once. She was certainly beautiful – though Sandor could have never guessed how much she would grow and change over the years. She was so different now, nothing like the frightened little bird he'd rescued so long ago.

 _I killed him._

The words swam circles around Sandor's mind. Sansa had tasted blood. She may never know the weight of a broadsword, but she knew what it was to kill. In a strange way, Sandor felt fonder of the girl than ever before.

 _She sees me now._

He was sorry that she had been pushed to such extremes. He would have done the dirty deed for her in a heartbeat, had she asked. Part of Sandor still wanted to shield the girl from men's brutality – though he supposed that was impossible now. She had seen the worst kind of monster, what was Sandor to her now?

He'd never hurt her. She knew that. She recognized him as safe to confide in. The ladies of the court could never hear her stories; they'd only run in fright. The little bird knew he would understand. Would never judge. It all suddenly made sense.

 _We've both got scars now._

Sandor pulled himself off of the floor with a low groan. His thigh twinged. He took the three steps to his bed and collapsed onto it. He wasn't certain he could sleep, but his bones ached. His chest ached too, though he didn't think it had anything to do with his dinner. Sandor felt an odd kind of pressure, as though his breathing was being hindered. As he stared up at the ceiling, he saw nothing but Sansa's face.

Sandor imagined himself running a hand down the side of it. Gently, so gently.

He could be gentle. He would have to be – he wanted no comparisons drawn between him and the monster that had hurt her. He would keep her safe. For as long as the dead men allowed, Sandor would be her protector.

 _I've got you, Little Bird._


	8. Chapter 8

**• Chapter Eight •**

Sandor spotted her across the yard. Her formidable figure was clad in heavy steel, the light of the winter afternoon sun bounced off the armour handsomely. Sandor was not interested in watching her train. He strode up to her, taking her by surprise as she oiled her sword. He thumped a fist against the wall beside her head. Brienne turned, eyes narrowing upon recognition.

"You are a useless bitch," Sandor snarled. Once again, he had not slept. He was in no mood for mincing words.

Brienne's expression remained unchanged, save for a slight sneer.

"You should watch your tongue while I've a sword in my hand."

Sandor took a step back, holding his arms out at his sides in invitation.

"Please. I'd love an excuse."

Brienne rose to her full height, puffing her chest out to match him. They watched each other for a moment, neither one moving.

Sandor grew impatient.

"What would your beloved Lady Catelyn say if she saw what became of her favourite daughter? Fat lot of good you did for her." Sandor's voice dripped with distaste.

Brienne's eyes darkened. She paused, before placing her sword down on a nearby rack. When she finally spoke, her voice was low.

"Were you watching her sleep?"

Sandor scoffed.

"I was outside. She screamed. I came to help."

Brienne stared, awaiting further explanation. Sandor continued.

"I saw the scars."

The tall woman winced almost imperceptibly at his words. She sighed, crossing her arms over her chest.

"I went to her as soon as I could. I couldn't have known what she was living through. Every day I wish that I could take that pain from her."

They stood in silence for several moments. The chill between them seemed to slowly dissipate.

"I won't ever let her suffer like that again. Never."

Sandor's voice threatened to falter. He was so tired. He wanted so much to forget the things he had learned in the past few hours. As he stared at Brienne, he could see she felt similarly. She had the look of a haunted woman.

She nodded at him. "Seems we have a common goal, then."

Sandor grunted. He couldn't truly fault her for assuming the worst about him.

Brienne reached down to pick up her sword. She resumed running the oily rag over it.

"You should sleep. You'll be of better use to her well-rested."

Sandor swayed slightly on his feet. He couldn't argue with that.

* * *

 _The walls of the tavern began to crumble as the wood was slowly eaten by flames. Sandor took cover under a bench, his knees to his chest. He was small, only ten or eleven. He could sense his brother's presence - looming over him. He couldn't see him. The flames crept closer. They'd reach him soon._

 _Suddenly, the dream changed. The flames shifted, growing long and soft. They cascaded down around him, covering him. They did not burn. He breathed them in. He ran a hand through them - the auburn hair parted around his fingers. He sighed. He was safe._

* * *

Sandor had resumed his post, leaning against the cobblestone wall. There was a weight in his stomach that he could not shift. He had not seen Sansa today. He wondered how the events of last night would colour their interactions from now on. Would she simply pretend it hadn't happened?

 _Confiding in an old, stray dog. I'd feel shame too._

He was not a tactful man. He didn't give a shit about people's feelings. He'd never had to think about how he spoke to someone that wasn't a king. But he had to be careful now. Sandor promised himself he would not bring Sansa any further harm, even if it was only with careless words.

She'd been through enough, and he would not be the source of any further distress.

Footsteps.

Sandor did not react. He would not betray his anxiety about seeing her. The girl needed a steady rudder. From the corner of his eye, he saw her. Clad in dark blue, a colour she seemed to favour these days.

"Hello."

She spoke informally. Sandor thought that was encouraging. He gave her his customary nod.

"I trust you are well-rested? Brienne told me you looked a little out of sorts today."

"You girls and your gossip. I'm fine."

Sansa smiled slightly. She approached him, stopping only a small distance away from him. Their eyes met. She seemed... _Remorseful?_

"I can't imagine the things I told you last night were easy to hear," she began.

He stopped her.

"Little Bird. Not many people in this world have seen what I have. Seems to me there's not many others who could hear it."

Sandor contorted his voice, trying to sound at ease. He wasn't sure if he succeeded.

Sansa paused, considering him. Her face was composed.

"Would you sit with me again tonight?" Her voice was quiet.

"I don't think a man like me should be frequenting your bedchamber, my lady."

"I think that's my decision," she responded, almost cutting him off.

He stared at her for a moment. She seemed sure of herself. Sansa took his silence as acquiescence and pushed the heavy door open. Sighing, Sandor picked himself up and followed her in.

The room was lit by half a dozen candles. It looked different than it did last night, in the near pitch black. Warmer. Sandor could see the subtle feminine touches - a quilt here, a painting there. Even in the bleakest of times, Sansa brought light.

Sansa shrugged her cloak off, laying it on a dresser. She wore her gray frock underneath it, its fabric clinging to the curves of her body. Sandor reminded himself to look elsewhere. She turned her back to him, busying herself with something he couldn't see. He thought he heard the clinking of metal and glass.

"Wine?"

Sandor frowned. The girl was getting more and more brazen all the time.

"Would have thought you'd want to avoid getting me drunk, after what happened last time."

She chuckled. As usual, he marveled at the sound.

"I think it would be quite a feat to get a man of your size drunk. One drink seems quite safe."

Sansa turned, brandishing a silver goblet in each hand. She extended one towards him.

Sandor glowered, but accepted it.

"What do you think your brother would have to say about this?"

The girl scrunched her face up in faux-concern.

"I think Jon would be happy enough to know that I'm safe and content. He says he dreams about all manner of horrible things happening to me."

"He and I have that in common."

Sandor bit his tongue, concerned he had said too much.

Sansa sat on the end of her bed, taking a sip from her goblet. She gestured to the empty space beside her. An invitation.

 _Gods almighty. Brienne is going to have my head._

Against his better judgement, he moved to join her. He sat as far from her as the bed would allow. This seemed to amuse her.

"When did you start drinking?" He asked, afraid to talk about anything of real substance.

Sansa regarded the cup in her hand, turning it slowly.

"I learned eventually that wine helped the nights with Ramsay pass more quickly."

 _Shit._

"I'm sorry."

"I'm not afraid to talk about it."

There was a moment of silence. Sandor wasn't sure how to proceed. Thankfully, she decided for him.

"I used to watch Cersei go through cup after cup of wine in King's Landing. I listened to her speech slur, her eyes grow glassy. I wondered how anyone would allow themselves to become clumsy and unguarded like that."

She brought the goblet to her lips again.

"I understand now."

Sandor took a gulp from his own cup. The wine cascaded down his throat, giving him something else to think about, if only for a moment. It was good - better than the swill they served in the Great Hall.

They sat together for a minute, staring into the murky redness. Before Sandor knew it, he was speaking.

"There's something I wanted to ask." He was surprised at his own candor.

Sansa gave a small hum in response.

Sandor breathed, unsure of the right words.

"The Imp."

He watched her face. To his surprise, she smiled.

"Our marriage was never consummated. It was the reason I could marry Ramsay."

Sandor nodded slowly, trying to understand. _Do imp cocks not work?_

"Tyrion was kind. He wouldn't touch me."

Sandor's hands tightened around his cup. The thought of all the men that had had dominion over the Little Bird's body. It made him angry. He knew the Imp to be a decent man, but he was surprised to hear that he had resisted even the most tempting of opportunities. The laws of the land would have protected him if he'd decided to take her. Hells, it was expected.

"I'm glad to hear it", he responded gruffly.

Sansa turned her body, facing him more easily.

"Alright. My turn to ask a question." She looked positively conspiratorial.

Sandor's eyes narrowed. She was playing a game he didn't have the rule-book for.

"What do you dream about?"

He paused. _Why would she care?_

He humoured her.

"Used to be nothing but fire. Walls around me burning down. Seemed like it would go on forever."

"And now?"

"Still like that sometimes. But these days it's usually ice and corpses."

Sansa looked away from him, studying the wall.

"Sometimes I wish I could see them. The dead."

"You don't."

"I see them all the time, anyway. My imagining of them. The real thing can't be much worse."

"Well, you pray to all your little Gods that your brother does his job and maybe they can stay in your imagination."

Sansa snorted - an ugly sound. Sandor raised his eyebrows. _The wine must be going to her head._

"I expect I pray as often as you do, Ser." Her voice was tinged with irony.

Sandor supposed he should have expected a response like that. She wasn't the same little girl he'd left in King's Landing.

 _She wasn't a little girl at all._

Sansa was still staring forward, occupying herself with some crack in the stonework. Sandor took the opportunity to cast a quick glance down her gray-clad form. He was amazed that such a dull colour could be made so appealing. He took in her womanly proportions, each line and curve blending seamlessly into the next.

 _Enough._

He turned away from her, busying himself with finishing the last of his wine. He wasn't here for that.

"Your turn."

Sandor blinked, turning back to her.

"Hmm?" He grunted.

Sansa smiled, looking on expectedly. She had finished her wine, too.

Sandor wasn't sure if it was the drink or the quickly buried arousal, but he was frustrated.

"Why am I here?"

Sansa blinked slowly.

"To guard my chambers."

"Not to sip wine and swap stories," Sandor's voice was low.

"I don't see why we can't do that as well," she responded, matching his volume.

Sandor stood, his head spinning slightly. He ran a hand over his face.

"You'll forgive me if this is all a little strange," he said.

Sansa stood as well, smoothing the front of her dress with her hands.

"I didn't mean to upset you."

He took a step toward her. The wine had made him careless.

"Just tell me what you want from me." His voice was nearly a whisper.

Sansa stared up at him, her eyes raking over his face. They were so close. Sandor's ears felt hot.

Slowly, she raised her hand, bringing it up to rest against his cheek. Sandor held his breath. She was touching his scars. No one had ever done that before. He'd have never allowed it. He wasn't sure why he was allowing it now.

"I-"

"Let me, please."

Sandor exhaled loudly. He closed his eyes, embarrassed that his ruined face was bearing such scrutiny. He was always conscious of his scars, but hated to be reminded of them so directly. Sansa was gentle. Her long fingers traced patterns over the gnarled flesh around his eye. Sandor tried to steady his breathing, but could not make himself comfortable with the contact. It was utterly unfamiliar.

He took a step back, opening his eyes. Sansa lowered her hand, the smallest of smiles on her lips.

"That's enough, Little Bird," he whispered.

She nodded, seeming to understand. They held each other's gaze for a moment, neither one moving. Finally, Sandor sighed.

"I'll be outside. Sleep well."

As the wooden door closed with a thud behind him, Sandor felt the tension he had unconsciously been holding leave his muscles. His breathing came easier. He paused. Slowly, he brought his hand up to his cheek, hovering just above where Sansa's had been.


	9. Chapter 9

• _Chapter Nine •_

 _By order of Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell._

With a final flourish of her quill, Sansa signed the last of a large pile of letters due to be sent out to the major Northern houses. They were letters of gratitude, for the families missing their sons gone to fight the dead. Staring at the pile, she wondered idly how much comfort pen and ink could truly bring to a terrified family.

She pressed two long fingers into the joint where her thumb and wrist met; massaging gently. Writing for so long always pained her. With a small sigh, she gathered her cloak and made to stand. She gazed out the tower window, looking down on the grounds of Winterfell. Snowflakes rested on the windowsill, melting into icy slush atop the stone. Below, the yard workers were busy clearing the snow out of the main paths.

 _No use,_ Sansa thought, _it'll only keep falling._

There was a knock at the door. Without waiting for an answer - as was her custom - Brienne swung it open. She wore her usual blue-ish steel armour, her shocking white hair in its typical unkempt mess. Though it went against everything she had been taught about being a lady, Sansa loved the way Brienne looked. Being one of the only people in Westeros to boast a female guard was something she treasured dearly. She could be a little difficult to speak with at times, but Sansa always forgave her any trespasses. After all, her mother trusted her too.

"If you've finished with your letters, I'll have them taken to the rookery." The large woman sounded slightly out of breath.

"Thank you, Brienne. Is everything alright?"

Brienne crossed the room with a few steps, collecting the letters in her gloved hands. She regarded Sansa over her shoulder.

"Nothing to worry about, my lady. We had a bit of trouble with a boy visiting from Barrowton. Started a row with someone in the courtyard."

"Who?"

"I got there too late, I didn't see. I gave him a smack across the mouth and told him he'd be booted back home if he caused any more fuss."

Sansa gave her a smile.

"Very good. The last thing we need at a time like this is in-fighting."

Brienne nodded. She straightened, turning to face Sansa directly. She looked even more solemn than usual.

"I trust you are sleeping well?" Her voice was dripping with insinuation.

"Fine," Sansa replied, keeping her face blank.

Brienne pursed her lips, as if deciding whether or not to push. Sansa appraised her, awaiting the line of questioning she knew would eventually come.

"Forgive me, my lady", she began, "but I cannot understand why you chose _him._ Especially for such a... Delicate task. He is a good fighter, and perhaps even has some honour in him. But I would not trust a man like that outside a lady's chambers."

She paused for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice was quiet.

"And you've already been through so much."

She bowed her head slightly, as if embarrassed by her own boldness.

Sansa felt for Brienne. To be given a position at her side must have felt like a great honour to the memory of her mother, Catelyn. To be told she'd be sharing it with a man she nearly killed... She understood Brienne's reservations.

She was not about to make her feel any better.

"Thank you for you concern, Brienne. It isn't necessary. I feel very comfortable around Sandor."

Brienne raised her eyebrows, no doubt in response to Sansa's easy use of his first name.

"When I was in King's Landing, he went out of his way to make sure I was safe. He didn't need to."

Sansa hesitated. _Now or never._

"I believe he cares for me."

The letters in Brienne's hand crinkled slightly, as if she were tensing her fist. She forced a small smile, though it looked more like she was experiencing some kind of stomach upset.

"I see. And you... Return that sentiment?" Brienne looked wary, afraid of the answer.

Sansa was surprised by the question. She didn't expect Brienne would have the same romantic perception that most women possessed. Truth be told, she was impressed.

She steadied herself.

"Yes." Sansa breathed.

It was only a word, but it meant a great deal more. It confirmed things Sansa had only ever murmured to herself in the quiet. In the solitude of the Godswood, where no one could hear the ridiculous and near-surreal whisperings of a woman who could scarcely believe what her own feelings were telling her. In another life - before Ramsay, before Joffrey - Sansa would never have allowed herself to indulge such preposterous notions.

Now? She knew what it was to be beaten, taken, cut. To have her body used and discarded like so much livestock. She knew the evils of men, the blackness of their hearts. It made the light shine so much brighter, now that she could see it. She'd have never noticed before.

She hadn't told _him,_ but at least she'd told someone.

Brienne's eyebrows furrowed, the lines in her forehead more pronounced than usual. Sansa kept her face even, afraid to give too much else away.

"It is not my job to counsel you on such matters," Brienne began.

"Nor do I need you to."

"If you believe him to be a good man, I won't argue with you. To be frank, after two ludicrous marriages, I think you can do whatever you like."

Sansa stared. _Did Brienne just make a joke?_

She barely stifled a laugh. Brienne gave a small smile in response. For the first time, Sansa felt as though the two of them understood each other.

* * *

Sansa could feel the bottom of her cloak growing damp as she traipsed through the snow. She was headed for the Godswood. Part of her hoped she'd run into Sandor there, though she knew he'd probably be sleeping in preparation for his next night shift.

She used to hate the night. With it always came terrible dreams. She'd put off retiring to her chambers as long as she could, but she couldn't outrun sleep. Ramsay may have died at her hands, but he lived on in her mind. Every night she'd return to a Winterfell she did not recognize - kept company by a man that made her skin crawl. Again and again she'd re-live the horrors he subjected her to, and she'd wake screaming. Once or twice a chambermaid came to check on her, but she always ordered them away. It was no use. Nothing stopped the dreams.

 _He does._

Sansa had not anticipated feeling this way for her new chamber guard. She always knew she'd feel safer with him close, but he'd surprised her. When he sat by her, the first night, she was taken aback at how gentle he was. He was twice Ramsay's size, but she had no need to be afraid of him. Her memories of Sandor from King's Landing were strong, but they were clouded by the short-sightedness of youth. She wanted Joffrey. It was all she knew _how_ to want. She knew Sandor was kind, but it never meant much. She knew nothing then.

 _I should have gone with him at the Battle of Blackwater._

When she was not re-visiting the awful particulars of her marriage to Ramsay, Sansa found herself daydreaming about Sandor. She thought of him cutting down trees in the Godswood; his immense strength and agility as he trained in the courtyard. Pining over princes with boyish faces was a thing of the past. Sandor was strong, and she needed strength. Though his scarred face frightened her once, she found she hardly noticed it these days. It was a part of him.

Last night, he let her touch his face. She wondered if she was the first. Sansa wasn't naive - she was sure Sandor had bedded his share of whores - but she couldn't imagine him having ever let someone that close. Whether it was true or not, it comforted her to believe it.

Sansa weaved through the trees, the winter wind stinging her face. Even covered in sheets of snow, she knew the wood like the back of her hand. She strained to listen - usually she could hear the sound of heavy logs falling to the ground. She so loved that sound. It meant he was nearby. Today there was only silence. Still, she smiled.

 _I'll see him tonight._

She made to turn and head back, but before she could, she felt arms wrap around her. One around her waist, the other over her mouth. They squeezed tight. She felt hot breath on her neck, accompanied by a foul stench.

"Quiet, or I'll kill ya."

Sansa tried to scream, but the man's arm muffled it. She kicked as hard as she could, to no avail. She was pulled backward, her feet dragging across the forest floor. Tears beginning to flow, her head forced backward, she stared up at the blank, white winter sky.


	10. Chapter 10

• Chapter Ten •

It was mid-afternoon. Sandor was in the Great Hall, picking idly at a lump of bread. He didn't dream last night. The uninterrupted sleep was welcome, though he wondered at the reason for it. The hall was mostly empty - Sandor found himself eating outside of regular mealtimes these days. Partly because his new schedule called for it, and partly because it guaranteed he was left alone.

He heard the large doors crack open. He glanced up, but it was only a yard worker come for a cup of water. Sandor felt foolish. His ears pricked up at any sound that could ostensibly be _her._ They didn't typically cross paths during the day - Sandor slept through most of it and Sansa had her many duties to attend to. It didn't stop his senses from being on constant alert, however.

Things had changed after last night. He'd let her touch his face. He gave away a small piece of himself - something he'd never done before. Sandor's scars were part of his identity - complete strangers knew the story of how he'd gotten them. Once, he had found it humiliating. Now it simply irritated him. He avoided looking at or thinking about his face as much as he could.

 _She was afraid to look at me, once._

He had been taken aback by Sansa's lack of inhibition the night previous. It seemed she had grown into a woman with more confidence than he had anticipated. He supposed after what she had suffered through, she was entitled to indulge her whims. Besides, notions of propriety seemed rather unimportant with the end of the world fast approaching.

He had to tread carefully. Sansa had clearly taken some kind of interest in him - but it was not yet clear what that meant. She had shown him affection. It was unfamiliar to him, but he was happy to let her pet him, if that's what she wanted. Though it was difficult to ignore the fire she lit in his belly when he was near her, he knew focusing on such things would only cause trouble.

 _Doesn't need more men laying unwanted hands on her._

Pushing his chair away from the table, Sandor stood to leave. He took a final swig of mead before exiting out the Great Hall doors. It was windy today. The chilled air whipped at his face, snowflakes catching in his beard. The weather seemed to get worse each day, a quiet reminder of the horrors further north. Sandor spared a thought for the men fighting, wondering if they'd ever march back south again.

He let out a shiver, though it wasn't from the cold.

A little ways ahead of him, he heard a commotion. A man, no older than twenty, had stumbled into a horse trough and knocked it over. The stable boy appeared to be having words with him. Sandor moved across the courtyard. He knew how fights started, and this situation looked as though it was about get out of hand.

"Alright lads. Kiss and make up," he stared down the two young men, who looked up at him in surprise. The stable boy threw up his hands.

"Don't want no trouble, Clegane." He turned and quickly left, leaving the other man staring. His eyes were glassy and unfocussed.

"So yer the dog everyone talks about," he slurred.

Sandor looked him up and down. The man was drunk.

"You stink of ale. Go home and sleep it off."

"S'not against the law for a man to have a drink," he swayed slightly on his feet.

"I like a drink. Don't typically do it while the sun's still up."

The man spat at Sandor's feet, his eyelids drooping heavily.

"S'good for you, isn't it," he murmured.

"The fuck you talking about?"

He kicked the snow about aimlessly with his boot, staring downwards.

"Yer in the Stark's good graces, you are. The Snow bastard loves ya. Livin' it up, sleepin' in the Great Keep. Fuck knows what you did to deserve it."

Sandor took a step towards him, a wordless warning.

"Time for you to stumble home."

The man looked up, but didn't manage to make eye contact.

"Heard you was curlin' up at the end of the Lady Stark's bed," he slurred.

 _Thwack._

Sandor hadn't mean to hit him hard, but the man was sent stumbling, falling backward into a snowdrift.

"Anything else?" He stood above him, casting a large shadow across the cowering man.

He stood up clumsily, brushing the snow from his dirty clothes.

"Yer no fookin' better than me, dog. Just because she got a taste of your bone. I could show her a better time than you could."

The sun danced off of steel as Sandor made a show of unsheathing his sword. He didn't intend to use it, just scare him off. They had attracted a crowd, he realised. From the corner of his eye he saw a woman running to alert the gate guard. Scowling at the drunkard, Sandor sheathed his weapon. He turned on his heel, marching back toward the Great Keep.

 _Dumb fuckers everywhere._

* * *

Sandor had returned to his chambers to collect himself. He had sorely wanted to thrash that little cunt until he screamed for his mother, but he knew he had to behave himself. If he broke the rules, he may have his duties stripped. He was growing fond of his nightly encounters with the Little Bird. He wasn't going to do anything to jeopardize that.

He stared out his window, watching the snowflakes fall steadily. He thought of warmer climates, though he supposed even King's Landing would be feeling the effects of winter by now. He pictured Cersei frozen to the Iron Throne, stuck like a statue. The thought amused him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a familiar blue cloak down below. She was facing away from him, heading out the gate toward the Godswood. He didn't need to see her face, he knew it was Sansa. He frowned. She should have an escort. She had clearly slipped through Brienne's fingers and decided to go wandering. He hesitated, unsure if he should follow her. She was a grown woman, he supposed she could go for a walk if she felt like it. Nonetheless... It made him uneasy.

He watched her disappear out of view. He thought she might view it as an insult if he went after her. _I can take care of myself, she'd say. Stubborn girl._

Sandor was about to turn away from the window when his eyes were drawn to something else. Someone else. He squinted, not quite able to make out a face. Whoever it was, they were heading out the gate as well. He moved closer to the window, peering down at the mysterious figure. Sandor recognized the dirty boots from earlier; the same intoxicated stumble.

 _He's following her._

* * *

Sandor's ears were ringing. His heart thumped in his chest, he had run as fast as he could from the Great Keep to the Godswood. The woods were vast, and the steadily falling snow had wiped out any tracks they may have left. His breath came out in icy bursts in front of his face. He considered calling out, but he didn't want to alert the man to his presence.

 _Where would she go?_

He remembered the day she came to him in the wood. They had talked sitting atop a felled tree.

 _I'm happy you're here, she'd said._

He set off in that direction, one hand on the hilt of his sword. His injured thigh protested with every step he took, but Sandor ignored it. He pushed broken branches out of his way as his feet pounded hard against the snow. His sides ached and his mouth began to taste like copper. It didn't matter. He wouldn't stop.

The trees thinned out into a clearing, and Sandor slowed. He could see them, about two hundred feet in front. The man had his back to Sandor and looked as though he was struggling to stand. Sansa was facing him, though he couldn't see her properly. They appeared to be talking. He could make out their voices, but not the words.

Sandor crept closer, unsheathing his sword as quietly as he could. The man wasn't hurting her, yet. If he was alerted to Sandor's presence, he might lash out. As he approached, Sansa came into full view. Her expression appeared calm, but her hair and clothes were disheveled; as if there had been a struggle. Her body was stiff - she was scared. If she had noticed his presence, she wasn't showing it. He took another few steps forward, bringing him close enough to hear their conversation.

"Yer fucking brother said I was unfit to march with the others. Little bastard," the man's speech had improved. He was sobering up.

"I am sure your Lord was only acting in your best interests. You can be of help to us here in Winterfell," Sansa's voice was steady, wavering only slightly.

"It's because I like the drink too much. Wouldn't be able to trust me, he said."

"When we are victorious and my brother returns, I will make sure he knows of your unfailing loyalty to our house."

The man grunted. He fumbled around in his breeches, before pulling out a small knife.

"I don't give a pig's arse about loyalty. I'll show your brother that he shouldn't have crossed me. Now I'm going to fuck his little sister til she screams."

Sandor was upon him before he could even take a step forward. He shoved him to the ground, the knife flying out of his hand onto the snow.

"Remember me, cunt?"

Sandor drove his boot into the man's face. Blood poured from his mouth, his hands moving to wipe it away. He landed another kick in his stomach, causing him to curl up in pain. He raised his sword, ready to bring it down on his neck.

"Stop."

He looked up. Sansa was standing across from him, a strange look on her face. She wasn't looking at Sandor, but at the man lying on the ground. She seemed to be studying him.

"Little Bird, some men don't deserve your mercy."

She didn't take her eyes away from the man. It was as though she hadn't heard him.

"... Sansa?"

The man writhed slowly, the blood from his mouth painting the snow beneath him.

When she finally spoke, it was whisper quiet.

"Will you show me how?"

Sandor stared at her. He'd heard the words, but he could not discern their meaning.

"How to what?"

Sansa looked up at him at last. Her eyes had a faraway look about them. She extended her arm towards him, slowly unfurling her hand. She was holding the knife that the man had dropped.

He met her eyes with his own. He felt as though he had a thousand questions, but he could not make himself speak. Instead, he simply held her gaze for what felt like an eternity. He was not certain what his questions were, but he could see the answers in her icy blue eyes.

The answer was yes.

Wordlessly, Sandor reached under his cloak and unfastened the dagger he carried on his right hip. He took the knife from her hand, replacing it with the dagger.

"Quick or slow?" He murmured, so that only she could hear. He heard her take in a sharp breath.

"Quick. I don't want to get it wrong."

Beneath them, the man was attempting to sit up. He groaned loudly. Sandor drove his foot into the side of his head, knocking him back down. He turned to Sansa, placing a hand on her shoulder. She looked up at him, her breathing ragged.

"I'll hold him. You take that dagger and run it along his neck. Use more force than you think."

She stared at him for a moment, before nodding once. Sandor raised his hand to her face, running a thumb across her cheekbone.

"I'm here if anything happens," he said, his voice low.

Sandor crouched down, forcing the man into a kneeling position. He spluttered in protest, but was too weak to fight. Sandor wrapped an arm around his torso, pulling his head back by the hair. Sansa stood before them, her eyes landing on the man's newly exposed throat. He writhed halfheartedly, but Sandor held him firmly in place.

Sansa took a step forward, her hand shook as she held the dagger in front of her. The man saw it and began struggling harder. Sandor held him still like a freshly caught, wriggling trout. He pressed his lips against the man's ear.

"You made a poor choice today, friend."

He looked up at the redhead, now a mere few feet away from the man. Her face looked serene. Sandor watched intently. She was beautiful.

Without warning, Sansa moved the dagger across the man's throat. Sandor could hear the skin tearing, the sound of blood spurting. Somewhere beside him, he heard the dagger fall to the ground. He dropped the now lifeless man - a blanket of red spreading out from his head like a blooming flower.

Sandor wiped himself off and stood. He turned to the girl beside him. She was staring down, taking in the picture she had painted in the snow. They stood in silence for a few moments. He watched her, unsure how she might react to reality of her deed. After some time, she turned to look at him.

"It happened more quickly than I expected. I saw it happen to Littlefinger, and he took much longer to die."

Sandor blinked. It seemed the Little Bird had seen more death than she had let on.

"You're getting a taste for it," he said. "Seems cruelty excites you."

"It's not cruelty if they deserve it. It's justice." Her breathing was still heavy.

They regarded each other for a moment. Something was different. Doing this had changed things between them, though Sandor was at a loss to explain how. He watched Sansa's eyes search his face. Her eyes had turned almost black. He knew that look, though he never expected to see it on _her_ face.

"Come with me," she murmured.

She took off back toward the gate, a new resolve in her step. Sandor stared after her.

 _Gods._


	11. Chapter 11

Sansa's blood was humming. The buildings of Winterfell moved past her vision in a gray and white blur, her feet seeming to vibrate as they hit the ground. Some far off, quiet voice meekly suggested feeling guilty about what had just transpired in the Godswood, but she wasn't about to listen to it. She felt good. She felt _powerful._

Behind her, she could hear the heavy footsteps of her charge. Sandor had been there with her, had witnessed the life leave that man's body alongside her. They had shared something unspeakable. Sansa had been confident that he would assist her if she asked, but his swift acquiescence filled her with a strange kind of affection. He didn't question her - didn't ask if she was certain. He trusted her to know her own mind, and he helped her do what needed to be done. They were kindred. Killers alike.

If Sansa still believed in the Gods, she would have thought their being together in that wood was divinely planned.

Before she knew it, she was pushing open the heavy door to her chambers. She turned for the first time since leaving the Godswood. Sandor stood in the doorway, a curious look on his face.

"Join me," she said smoothly.

The large man straightened, taking two steps into the room. They faced each other. Through the window, the setting sun cast an eerie glow across his ruined face. His eyes were intense.

"You took a life. Used your own hands this time," his voice was gruff, and Sansa sensed a hint of unease.

Smiling, she held a hand out in invitation. Sandor glanced down at it, clearly unsure what to make of it.

"Come," she murmured.

He frowned slightly, but obeyed. He approached her, taking her hand lightly in his. A leather glove covered his hand, obstructing the contact she desired. She gave a small squeeze, which he returned.

"Thank you for showing me how."

"He was a dead man either way," Sandor grunted. "but you should know how to do it."

She looked up at him. He was so big. It was never more apparent than when they were close like this. Taller than most girls, it wasn't often Sansa was made to feel small. She found it oddly comforting.

His presence leveled her, took the edge off of the frantic energy she had felt since leaving the wood. Clarity was beginning to return - with it came a twisting sensation in the pit of her stomach.

"When I was watching him die," she whispered, "I was imagining it was Ramsay."

She held her breath. She hated saying his name out loud. Some irrational part of her feared she would summon him by doing so. _Stupid._

Sandor placed his other hand on top of hers. Sansa began to breath again.

"Aye. Seems they were similar enough."

"I wonder how quickly he'd have died if I cut his throat," her voice broke on the last word. She bit her lip. _Don't lose control. Not over him._

She felt a large arm wrap around her shoulders. He was pulling her into his chest. He had armour on, making it a little uncomfortable - but she appreciated the gesture. She rested her face against his shoulder. His other hand rested on the back of her head, gently stroking her hair. She allowed herself a small smile.

Sansa always knew he had a gentleness in him. She'd seen it way back in King's Landing. A frightening hound though he may be, he also cared for broken little birds. This tenderness was what sparked the affection she had come to feel for him of late. Today, in the wood, she had felt something very different.

 _Quick or slow?_

He had whispered low in her ear, an utterly private moment between the two of them. It sent a shiver through her body, lighting up every part of her. She remembered feeling that way about Joffrey, and then for Ser Loras. But even those feelings paled in comparison to this. They were boys, and she was only a girl.

She was a woman now. _And Sandor..._

"Sandor," she whispered.

He grunted, his chest rising under her cheek.

She untangled herself from him, taking a step back. The sun had all but set now. Sansa turned, busying herself with lighting candles. With her back to Sandor, she gathered herself.

"I thought we could play a game," she spoke over her shoulder.

"Not sure I know the rules," he replied, dry as ever.

Lighting the last of the candles, she turned back around. She took a deep breath. She had no experience in taking these sorts of matters into her own hands. She was always a thing to be chased, to be courted. Never a care for what she desired.

The rules of the old world were an ancient memory to her now. The world before Ramsay, before she knew the cold reality of living in a world where men simply took what they wanted. It was time she did the same. And she wanted Sandor. She was sure to earn disapproval from any who still held onto their illusions about ladyship - but she didn't care. The Night King could come knocking on her door tomorrow, for all she knew. She had dreamt of it often enough.

Sansa made a show of slowly unfastening her cloak, before pulling it off and dropping it to the floor. Her eyes were still adjusting to the dark, but she could see Sandor's brow furrow.

"I'm going to need some wine for those kinds of games," he said, voice gravelly.

Sansa smirked. She was quietly relieved he hadn't rejected her cryptic suggestion. She was reasonably confident he would do whatever she asked, but she also knew him to be as stubborn as she was. She walked to her bureau, pouring them each a glass of red wine. She passed it to him and sat on the edge of her bed. Needing no invitation, he made to join her. She watched his weight create a depression in the mattress as he sat. He was growing more comfortable around her.

Sandor was watching her now - she realized she liked the scrutiny. His deep brown eyes were captivating, dark pools of quiet intelligence. She found comfort in them.

"You have lovely eyes," she whispered, slightly embarrassed. She took a long swallow from her cup.

Sandor laughed - one short, sharp sound.

"You haven't got me sat on your bed to talk about my eyes."

Sansa chuckled breathlessly. Sandor was much older than she was. He could talk his way through the discomfort of these things. Though - she supposed - he could talk his way through most things.

"I thought we could swap scars," she said quietly. The wine was already giving her courage.

She felt him stiffen beside her. She had said the wrong thing. He'd leave in a huff and she'd be left alone with her silly desires.

 _Stupid. Stupid Sansa._

A long moment passed. She closed her eyes, too scared to watch his face. Finally, he spoke.

"You know how I got this one."

Sandor clutched her hand - he had taken his glove off - and guided it toward his cheek. She opened her eyes, turning to him. He watched her, his gaze soft. She ran her fingers along his cheek, feeling the bumps and curves of the warped flesh. Without thinking, she leaned up and kissed him there - one quick, chaste peck. She pulled back, gauging his reaction. The corner of his mouth twitched.

 _That's as good as a smile,_ she thought.

Placing her cup down, she slowly rolled up the sleeve of her dress. She studied her forearm, covered in a dozen faded cut marks.

"And you know how I got these."

He stared down at her pale flesh, silently studying. She wished sorely that she could hear his thoughts.

Sandor placed a hand on her arm - his large fingers wrapped around it with ease. He was so warm. He gave her arm a gentle squeeze, before pulling it up to his mouth. He kissed her once, twice, three times - each on a different scar. Sansa's skin felt as if it was burning; her breath growing heavier. She had never felt this way with any man. Even the lightest touch was enough to send her mind spinning. She wondered if he felt the same.

He stood, toying with the fastenings at his shoulders. After a moment, he pulled his breastplate away from his body, letting it clatter to the floor. He wore a simple brown undershirt - the neck left untied, exposing the top of his chest. He was covered in dark hair, the shirt form-fitting enough to hint at his strong frame.

"It's not often I see you out of armour." Sansa barely recognized her own voice. It was lower now.

"Does the lady approve?"

"Very much."

Sandor made a show of performing a clumsy half-curtsy. Sansa laughed - the sound bouncing off the walls of the chamber. He stopped still, regarding her.

"I've never heard you laugh like that," he said quietly.

She smiled at him. She couldn't remember the last time she'd laughed like that, either.

Sansa patted the mattress beside her, beckoning him back to her. He perched obediently. She raked her eyes over him, stopping to linger on the thick mass of hair at the opening of his shirt. She thought again of Joffrey, Loras, Ramsay. They were all smooth-chested. Once, Sansa thought she preferred that. Now, it was all she could do not to lay her hand against Sandor's skin, to know what it felt like.

Almost as if he had read her mind, Sandor pulled back the material of his shirt, exposing his shoulder. She felt her eyes widen, though she prayed he did not notice. He turned his head, showing her a large, dark scar where his neck met his shoulder. Sansa frowned.

"That looks like..."

"A bite mark. Aye. Got it while travelling with your sister. Set upon by a couple of cunts, one of them gave me this."

She didn't wait for permission this time. She raised a hand to his neck, tracing the scar lightly. Parts of the skin were raised slightly, but it seemed to have healed well.

"Arya stitched it up. Would have looked much worse otherwise."

Sansa hummed, amused. _Septa Mordane's sewing lessons weren't for naught, after all._

Sandor's hand reached up to grasp her own, his large thumb travelling up and down the length of her knuckles. This contact between them had quickly become comfortable - she wondered briefly if such things were usual between men and women. She had been robbed of a proper courtship - a loving, tender wedding night. She didn't know what those things were supposed to feel like.

"Have you been with many women?" The question had escaped her lips before she realized she was speaking. She took in a sharp breath, embarrassed at herself. Sandor's hand tightened around hers.

"I had my fun in the capital. No wife or family to spend my wages on. Mostly ale and whores."

Sansa was silent. Her cheeks were burning.

"Doesn't take my fancy anymore."

She glanced up at him.

"No?"

"No."

She searched his face for the meaning behind his words. Was his lack of interest in women simply a result of his changed circumstances, no longer working for the King in the capital? Did he, like her, find it hard to think of such things with the threat of The Long Night ever-present? Perhaps none of that mattered. He was here, in her bedchambers. He had helped her take a life less than an hour ago. They had spilled blood together. They were bonded. And Sansa wanted him.

"My turn," she whispered.

She reached up to the neck of her frock, undoing the ornamental clasp and the cord underneath it. She pulled the fabric aside, baring her neck and collarbone. She had a long scar that began there; a permanent reminder of Ramsay's penchant for knife play. Sandor's eyes landed on it, his lips turning downward into a small grimace.

"It's large, but not particularly interesting. I got it because I couldn't answer a riddle he gave me."

Sandor's fist curled around the mattress between them.

"How far does it go?"

Sansa watched him for a moment. She had been anticipating that question. Her stomach suddenly began to toss and turn, her skin warming considerably. This is what she wanted when she asked to play this game. Now, faced with the reality of it, she found that she was terribly nervous. Only two men had ever seen her body - Ramsay and Theon. Neither had earned that right. So much had been taken from her; her pride, her dignity, her choice. She wanted to show herself to someone under her own terms.

Her hands shook slightly as she continued to untie the cords that held her dress together. She kept her eyes down, not having enough nerve to maintain eye contact with Sandor as she did so. She felt the cool air brush her skin as the fabric fell away from her. With one final, deep breath, she let her hands return to her sides, shifting so that her chest was completely exposed. The winter air danced across her breasts - they heaved up and down, drawing attention to her rapid breathing. She hadn't dared to look up. Her heart pounded in her ears.

"Gods," Sandor whispered. He sounded impossibly far away.

Finally, Sansa looked up. Sandor's eyes were locked onto her newly uncovered flesh. His gaze lingered on her left breast, where the thick scar ran through to its conclusion at the top of her stomach. After a moment, his eyes traveled back up to meet hers. To her frustration, she could feel tears beginning to form. She hadn't anticipated how difficult it would be to display the proof of her mutilation.

"He ruined me," she whispered, tears falling freely now.

She felt large, warm arms gather around her. He pressed her into him - this time there was no armour between them. Sansa pressed her wet face against his skin. She could hear his heart pounding against her ear, the hairs on his chest tickling her cheek. His size was truly overwhelming; he seemed to be everywhere. Sansa's breathing came easier. She had almost forgotten that she was half-naked. Sandor didn't seem to mind. He had prioritized her comfort over any pleasure he might have taken in looking at her.

She felt as though she could start crying again, though it wasn't over Ramsay.

"I'm sorry," she sniffled. "This isn't how I intended things to go."

"Hush now, Little Bird," he murmured against her hair. "Play your game some other time."

They sat in silence, Sansa pressed contentedly against him. She had wanted to be strong - to prove to herself that she could move beyond the abuse she had endured. Perhaps she had been too hasty. The ghost of her late husband still lingered, try as she might to ignore its presence.

Sandor had been patient with her. She knew he would give her the time she needed. She wanted more than anything to be close to him, to know what the rest of him looked and felt like. But it would have to wait. She had to learn what it meant to be with a man she trusted. And she trusted Sandor with all her heart.

 _A Hound will die for you, but never lie to you._


End file.
